Singing Paeans to the Stars
by ilysia
Summary: A repository of small tales that span the entirety of Narnia's history, in no chronological order. Twenty-four: Narnia loses many things in its hundred years of sleep, and she is one of them.
1. Sackcloth and Ashes

_**Disclaimer:** I own nothing, alas!_

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She turned, determinedly not looking at him, slicking her palms against the smooth, too-bright fabric at her hips. Without asking he knew that she hated it, this dress that had been prepared for her. Little wonder, too. His star's daughter was still very much a child of sea and sky.

"Love…"

"This is foolish," she choked out, a rising sob hidden behind the quiet control she always managed to keep. He saw the tears rising and could only watch helplessly as she raised one barely trembling hand to dash them away, roughly, angrily. "It's just that I… I..."

"Don't concern yourself-"

"It is important, though, isn't it?" She turned and gave him a quiet look. It never occurred to him- not now, not _ever_- to give her anything less than the truth. She wouldn't have wanted it, wouldn't have believed it. This would be the one part of his life where he would never deal in falsehoods.

"Not to me," he whispered, and stepped forward to pull her into his arms. The yards of ivory silk and lace and flounces and gems came along with her. "Love, it would not matter to me if you wore sackcloth and ashes to our wedding." She laughed brokenly into his shoulder. "Truly, you are always radiant, never mind what trappings you don."

She pulled away at that, guessing at the double meaning behind his words. "Caspian…" A warning, but there was laughter there as well.

He raised one brow in amusement before pulling her closer, closer till he could smell the wind and sea in her hair, closer till he could see the faint redness that lingered in her eyes. And then he kissed her, gently at first, then stronger, like the sea in a storm. She never hesitated, returning passion for passion.

When they finally parted, her eyes were no longer red. The silk and lace and flounces of the gown were crushed almost beyond repair and, seeing this, she laughed. "Who needs trappings?"


	2. Foreign Affairs

Tarkaan Kariin, Premier Minister of Trade for his Eminence, the Tisroc, may he live forever, stood behind the intricately carved screen and glowered.

The cause of his abominable temper was seated quite gracefully in the room on the other side of the screen. Normally Kariin would never have wasted time glaring at woman whom even he- with his high standards and egotism- had to admit was, apparently, flawless. No, normally he would have better spent that time leading her gently but firmly to his bed, where he could better acquaint himself with the flaws he knew were certainly hiding somewhere about her person. But this was not a normal situation. This was not a normal woman, and Kariin could not imagine that his master the Tisroc, may he live forever, would be anything less than outraged if his Minister of Trade tried to lead _this_ woman to his bed.

Because this woman, curse her- her and her pale skin, her red-gold hair, her calm expression- was Queen of the barbarian Narnia, and the Tisroc did not take kindly to his ministers bedding the monarchs of neighboring kingdoms, no matter how backwards those neighboring kingdoms might be.

Not to mention, of course, the fact that the as-yet-unmarried Tisroc, may he live forever, rather fancied trying to bed the Narnian queen himself, if Kariin was any judge of such things.

Still scowling darkly, he shifted to get a better view of the Narnian Swanwhite. She was breathtaking by any standard, slender and graceful and young, and there was an air of confidence hanging about her that only added to her allure. The harsh Calormene sun flooded in from the room's many windows, highlighting the gold in her hair and flooding her grey eyes with color. He let himself imagine for a moment how that hair would look in soft candlelight…

Snapping himself back to the task at hand, Kariin reminded himself of his duty. He was the Tisroc's Minister of Trade, and as such he was to go into that room with that paragon of womanhood and… trade.

His scowl deepened at the thought. When the Tisroc had informed him of the imminent trading conference with the barbaric kingdom of the North, Kiriin had assumed Narnia would be sending an ambassador. What he had received was their queen, youthful and prepared to perform the needed trade negotiations that would allow her merchants to transport their goods into Calormen without paying the ruinous import taxes in which the Tisroc, always a fool when it came to fiscal policy, so delighted. Kiriin had been rather looking forward to attempting to create a Calormene monopoly on spices and pistachios.

He seriously doubted that any of this would occur now, though, now that he was forced to work with this… this… woman.

And, on that matter, was the Narnian contingent truly so trusting as to leave their unmarried, heirless queen alone in a palace full of not-quite enemies? He could see no guard and yet surely, _surely, _they would not be so stupid? Why, he could slip out from behind this screen in a second's time and slit her throat without her so much as knowing of his existence. If she were so simple as to believe that friendly words assured honorable conduct, getting the needed trade stipulations would be child's play.

Feeling slightly better at the thought of bleeding Narnia's economy dry during the course of this 'negotiation', Kariin surreptitiously straightened his robes and prepared to step out from behind the screen, pushing all thoughts of red-golden hair spread against silk sheets from his mind. At the concealed door, carved so as to blend in with the rest of the screen, he paused for a moment, giving Queen Swanwhite one last longing look. She was oblivious to his pending arrival, a fact that greatly pleased the Minister of Trade. He had found over the years that his sudden, unexpected entrance lent him a great advantage in even the trickiest of negotiations.

The door creaked almost imperceptibly under his light touch and he smiled, knowing that the queen had heard nothing.

The smile faded quickly when a sinuous black shape slunk out of one shadowed corner to stand by the queen's chair.

Kariin was no coward. He had served honorably in the former Tisroc's army before becoming a minister and had killed his share of men. He had faced the Tisroc's wrath more than any (living) man, and was no stranger to the wild beasts that flourished in the desert.

He was, however, not a fool, and so he could not help his heart from racing when he spied the great black jaguar that had just stopped at the side of Queen Swanwhite's chair. From the foreign queen he expected a scream, a shout, perhaps even a fit. What he did not expect was for the barbarian queen to incline her head towards the beast, an intent look on her face.

Kariin blanched before remembering the rumor that this young queen often traveled with a guard comprised exclusively of black jaguars. It was a rumor that he had put down to ignorance and mere fancy… until this. Some Narnian beasts had the power of speech, he knew, but to see such a one in his council room… well, it strained credulity.

When Queen Swanwhite looked up from what he could only suppose to be a conference with the beast and stared directly at his hiding place, Kariin knew the time had come- and was actually rather past- to reveal himself. He pushed the door open and stepped into the room reluctantly, knowing that his advantage was lost.

"Queen Swanwhite," he murmured, sweeping a low bow and trying not to think about the fact that this movement bared the back of his neck to the queen's beast, "I am Tarkaan Kiriin, Premier Minister of Trade to his Eminence the Tisroc, may he live forever."

"My Lord Kiriin."

Her voice was quiet, firm, cool. Its sound drew his eyes from the floor to rest firmly on hers and, once the queen knew that she had his full attention, she smiled.

Her smile made his legs weak and his hands tremble, not merely with desire but also with a new emotion: panic. There was no warmth in that smile, no gentleness. With one smile, Queen Swanwhite of Narnia had revealed herself.

She sat on the simple chair as though it were a throne. At her side was the black jaguar, its golden eyes fixed on Kiriin. With her beauty and her confidence and her smile, she was like a goddess revealed, cool and calculating and absolutely unwilling to lose any ground in this battle of words.

Feeling more like a supplicant than a minister in the face of this disturbing revelation, Kariin swallowed his apprehensions and reminded himself of his duties. He was the Premier Minister of Trade and, even if this queen was his match in intelligence and political maneuvering, he still had a task to perform. Sighing and avoiding the jaguar's gaze, he approached the table at one end of the room and gestured expansively. "Queen Swanwhite, if your Majesty is ready, we may begin."

Her smile warmed slightly and she nodded. "I would like to first address the Tisroc's recent outrageous increase in import duties…"


	3. Just a Shadow

She was seated at the bluff's edge, silhouetted against the red of the sunset, and Erlian briefly wondered which of her minders had let her wander away this time before remembering that his sister was no longer a child. He approached cautiously, slow and loud, careful not to startle her. She gave no sign that she heard him, but then that was her way.

He settled himself next to her, watching her from the corner of his eye; the way her chestnut hair had fallen from its plait to toss in the wind, the way her too-thin arms were wrapped around her knees as she hugged them to her chest, the way the rich fabric of her dress bore signs of rough wear and little care. And her eyes- they never once turned his way, despite the fact that they were the only two on the bluff.

"Aislinn…"

"It's not time yet," she said quietly, still looking out to where the sun was falling behind the western mountains. Erlian harbored a brief hope that she was talking about coming down from the bluff, but her next words slew it mercilessly. "Not time yet, but soon, soon; all darkness and waves."

And that was the way it was with her. The king's poor mad daughter, she'd been called in her youth; prone to visions and bouts of silence and the rare lucid comment, she'd been born half-sane and doomed to spend her life regarded with an equal mixture of fear and pity. And that was no way for anyone to live.

But Aislinn hadn't cared as a child and didn't care now; she lived in a world that was made up by the future as much as it was by the past and present, and she spent too much time trapped in her own curse to care much what her father's court thought of her.

Erlian cared.

She turned to him, then, and regarded him with those startling grey eyes that seemed to look through a person rather than at them. "Erlian," she whispered. Her eyes raked him up and down, as though searching for something. When she caught sight of his tunic, she paused. "Never wear red." One pale hand reached over and stroked the bright scarlet of his shirt. Her fingers hesitantly traced the golden embroidery on his sleeve.

"Never wear red," she said again, though this time the words were louder. She pulled her hand away as though stung and turned her eyes back to the west. "It pulls all the color out of your face. Red like rubies, one two three, onto the blue, but it doesn't form purple, oh no, just crimson into mud on the blue and the Giants can see that, you know."

Erlian shivered, wishing he could take Aislinn back to Cair Paravel with him, away from these wild places. But that wouldn't do her any good, he knew; she'd always been worse near the sea. Shaking such thoughts away, he summoned his voice from where her words had chased it to and gave her the news he'd come to deliver. "Sereth and I have had a son, Aislinn. You have a nephew, and Narnia has a prince."

He didn't expect any acknowledgement and he didn't receive any, but his sister had deserved to know that she was an aunt. They sat in silence a few moments more before Erlian began to get chilled. He made to rise, knowing Aislinn would come down from the bluff in her own time and not a minute before.

"Erlian." Her voice was sharp, clearer than he'd heard in years, and it froze him where he sat. "I am glad; for you and for Sereth."

"You should come see him. Sereth would be glad of it, and Tirian should know my sister." The words tumbled out before he could stop them, born of desperation and a hope that news of his son had sparked sanity in his sister, however brief.

"I- Tirian?" Her voice lost its clarity again. His smile faded. "Tirian… hair like gold, catching the firelight, but that's soon gone, covered by darkness. But that's gone, too, just a shadow, a shadow through the door." She paused. "He won't be long afraid."

The last of the red faded from the sky as Erlian rose. "I'll give your congratulations to Sereth. Aislinn… I am sorry."

And then he was gone.

Aislinn remained. "Soon." She looked to where Erlian had disappeared, to the east. "It's just a shadow. It doesn't mean what you think."

And night fell.


	4. Starfire

Her feet wended their way through the dark room, needing no guidance in so familiar a place. Sinking into the window seat, a place so habitual as to be a second home, she pushed at the half-open window, letting the cool air surge into the chamber. The night smelled of the sea, of the East, of the stars.

In the darkness of the chamber, her husband stirred, turning sleepily in their bed and an unseen smile flitted across her face. He was a great man, a great husband, an even greater king. He loved her- had loved her, he'd told her, since first he saw her- and she loved him in return, if the strange, dreamlike passion they shared could even be called love. Sometimes, considering that strange passion, she would ask herself why it worked, why what she and Caspian had did not disintegrate into the dreams and stardust it was.

And then he would call her, and all her doubts would be forgotten.

He called her Ilene, using the name firmly and confidently, the word like a truth on his tongue. She'd never heard never heard her name sound like that; indeed, before Caspian, she'd scarcely heard her name at all. With her father she'd never needed a name. Her father's love had been evident in the care he took, his gentle guidance, the nights spent on the beach learning the song of the heavens. They had needed no names between them.

And then Caspian had come, Caspian in all his glory and his youth and his faults and she had been, from the first, smitten. It was in his eyes and the way he spoke about the end of the world with a passion and fire she'd never seen before, not even in the brightest and youngest of stars. He spoke to her of the end of the world and then he spoke to her of returning, and there was passion in those words, too. She would have waited even if he hadn't asked.

When he had returned, and when she left with him, he had asked for a name. She'd given him what she had- _Ilene_- and he in turn had given it to Narnia, given it to his people. After that, the name barely belonged to her. Ilene was a queen, Ilene was a lady sure and wise, Ilene was a Narnian. Ilene was not called by the stars.

She sometimes wished, when she heard that name and all the power that went behind it, that she could be more like the other ladies, more used to the ebb and flow of court life. She wished then that she could tell him how old she was, or which color she wanted for the new drapes in the Southern receiving room, or why she sometimes stared to the East with undisguised longing. In those painful moments, brief though they were, she wished she could be this Ilene of whom the whole court spoke, this Ilene who was the queen that Caspian deserved.

And then he'd shoot her a look full of stars and his name for her- _Star's daughter!_- would fall from his lips like a prayer and all her insecurities would disappear because she knew, in that moment, that he wanted nothing more than what she could give, nothing more than what she was. It was Ilene that he had married and made queen, but Star's daughter that he loved. His love was almost as fierce as her own; a frightening prospect, for she was the child of stars and her passions raged like fire in a heart that was accustomed to eternity.

It worried her that he loved her so much, and she him, for mortality crept upon them slowly and surely as the stars wheeled in the heavens. The signs of aging rested gracefully on Caspian, and she thought him all the more handsome for the strands of bright silver in his hair, but the knowledge of decay was always in the back of her mind, lurking in dark corners that she rarely dared explore. There was her own decline, too, soft and gentle to all other eyes but fearsome in her own, horrible because she was unused to counting the years, was unused to fading towards a known end.

She was the child of stars, born to grow old and then grow young again, born to remain on her father's island until the time had come to take up her own place in the heavenly spheres. Born not to die but to rise and fall, constant as the sea.

And then there had been that one, terrible choice, the choice Caspian could never know about, the choice he could never hear of, could never even suspect. He hadn't known what he asked when he asker her to wait for his return from the end of the world, nor when he'd asked her to follow him from her father's island to his own bright land.

Caspian didn't know, and she prayed that no one else in Narnia knew either, because she could hold in this secret so long as it was hers alone to keep. For Caspian she had made the choice, the choice that no one among her people had ever made before, the choice that she had been unaware was possible to make until the time was upon her to choose it. He could never know, because she had chosen him, and all that had come with him- his flaws and his pain and his mortality.

His mortality...

Her time was set now, but if there was one thing she knew it was this: that she had too much starfire in her blood to simply die and that terrified her. Stars could fade, stars could fall, but she knew of no star that had ever _died_… but then she knew of no star that had ever married a king of Narnia either, nor one who had bound herself to a man whose doom it was to die.

Turning her face from the open window, she looked back into the darkened chamber to that doomed man, to Caspian. He was still restless, his mind noticing and worrying over her absence even in sleep. Seeing his agitation, she abandoned her window seat, wishing fervently that she could abandon her thoughts as easily.

She settled next to him on the soft sheets and his restlessness ceased, though his hand sought her own. As she lay next to him in the cool darkness, with the scent of sea and wind and stars still dancing in the air, she couldn't help but worry what would happen when Caspian died, or when she did. It was an odd thought, to consider her own death before that of her husband's, yet the thought rang true in her and she had learned long ago to never ignore what knowledge her ancestry brought her.

It little mattered which one of them mortality claimed first, though. No matter which of them was taken by death, the other would fail, would fall, would fade. It was the danger of loving too deeply, of caring too much. It was the danger of loving a mortal with the passion meant for eternity, yet it was the choice that she and Caspian had made.

She reached out in the darkness and caressed his check, traced his jaw with one slender finger, and wished for one tiny moment that she had had the strength, those many years ago, to turn him away, to spare the both of them this agony; wished that she could have made the hard choice and sent him home to find a woman whom he could love with a love that was not so terribly passionate, so terribly wild, so terribly, terribly ceaseless.

But then he stirred beneath her touch, whispered her name- _Star's daughter!_- and opened his eyes to find her lying beside him…

And all her haunted longings disappeared because he looked like a man who had awoken to discover that the sun and moon and all the stars had been lit and hung for him alone, and for that look she would have given anything.


	5. Perfect Rebellion

When she wakes up in the morning, the dam is cold, the fire dead. It's common, now, for her to wake alone, and the most horrid thing about it is that she's beginning to grow used to it. Yet, in a way, she's almost glad, glad he leaves before she can rise, because this way she doesn't have to watch him leave her behind- again.

So she rises, as she always does, and stokes the fire, guts the fish, brings in wood from the slowly dwindling pile at the door, mends a small tear in their wedding quilt. She busies herself with household tasks because if she does that- if she falls into the familiar, worn rhythm of living- she doesn't have to think about Castor spying and Castor fighting and Castor dying in the snow that would cover him quick as thought.

When he comes home- sometimes in the late afternoon but more often in the dead of night- exhausted and exhilarated and always bearing some tale of danger and rebellion to chill her blood and raise her ire with, she fusses over him. Brushing dirt and snow from his fur, scolding him over the state of his pack or the general disrepair of the dam, forcing him to sit and eat no matter how much he protests; and he groans all the while about not needing another mother when he's got a perfectly good one living not three miles south.

And, over the years, the sharp feeling of terror for Castor wears down into a sensation of constant tension that she always carries. She manages the household, makes the meals, cares for her husband, _lives_.

She does this throughout the long, cold, dark winter years, never suspecting the truth: that hers is the harder task, hers the life that drives Jadis mad. Hers is the greater revolt because she refuses to change; Castor, for all that he works for the overthrow of the White Witch's reign, has become something else, something harder and colder and not all Narnian.

But Castor's wife- his quiet, cheerful, mothering wife- is entirely Narnian.

And she lives in perfect rebellion.


	6. Guerrilla Conversation

"Did you ever expect…"

"What?"

"Expect to… well, die like this?"

"Can't say that I did. Pass me that quiver."

"How can you be so calm?"

"I will soon cease being calm if you do not pass me that quiver."

"Fine." A pause. "You damn fool Centaurs and your calm; I will never understand-"

"_Hush._" Silence. "They're getting closer. Prepare yourself, young one."

"This is not the way we're supposed to end. It is supposed to be peaceful and calm… Narnia's not been attacked for centuries! We are safe, we are at peace-"

"We are overrun, outmaneuvered, and facing extinction. This is the way things are. I suggest you stop your battlefield philosophizing and give heed to our flank."

"But-"

"A curse on the hesitancy of Fauns! Listen, young fool, you are either an aid to me or you are an ally of the invaders from Telmar, and at present you are doing everything but aiding me!"

Silence.

"I… I am sorry. You are correct, as always."

"Do not bother apologizing. Come. Gather your weapons and be alert. We will see if we cannot teach these invaders a thing or two about guerrilla warfare."


	7. Silver Bells

_It's very different, isn't it, my sister? So new, so… untarnished. You'll see to that, though._

"You are a fool." Fingers cold as ice and strong as stone gripped the arms of the throne convulsively. She grimaced at the faint sound of silver-bell laughter.

_Oh, yes. Yes, I am. But so are you, sister._

She sighed and, with visible effort, relaxed her hands. "Even now you vex me."

_All our old sins haunt us in the end. _You_ remember _me._ Don't seek to cast blame onto me for your sense of guilt._

"What guilt do you expect me to feel?" Her voice was cold, even. "What I did was legitimate. You were weak. I… was not."

_And your strength proved too much, no?_

There was silence in the great hall, broken only by the sounds of even breathing and a slow heartbeat.

_So, winter, my sister? Charn never had such a winter… you are being creative._

"Again, I say that you are a fool."

_But then again, this winter you have created is just as desolate as Charn became. You are simply coming at it from the opposite direction. Will you destroy this one, too?_

She raised one brow archly, not a trace of irritation revealing itself on her too calm face. "Perhaps."

_Oh, sister! I will enjoy watching you try._

"Fool!" Jadis hissed, her icy composure momentarily splintered; but she was alone.

In the lonely stretches of Jadis' cavernous hall, silver-bell laughter echoed faintly.


	8. A Proposal of Marriage

"Fleeing already, your Majesty? I would have thought you'd be used to their arguing by now."

"Very funny, Lord Marnon," the queen of Narnia replied icily, though her expression was warm. "You are, as usual, off the mark. It is not the eternal arguing of my council that I find unendurable so much as its, ah, subject matter."

"Ah." Marnon gave the young queen a sympathetic look. "Marriage again?"

"Their perennial favorite topic of discussion. We've nothing pressing to discuss at the moment, and so their minds to turn more… domestic matters." Queen Swanwhite sighed before removing her coronet and running one hand through her hair in exasperation. "You would think they would at least have the decency to discuss it in secrecy, as is customary."

"Give them time, your Majesty. You're young; they expect you to jump at the thought of marriage to a nice young lord."

Swanwhite snorted. "Marnon, you of all people know that I would be the worst thing to happen to a nice young lord."

Marnon heard the slightly bitter undertone Swanwhite had nearly successfully buried under her customary cynicism. Turning slightly, he watched as she turned the coronet over in her hands, her expression thoughtful. She'd become quieter and more thoughtful, he had noticed, since her coronation. "I know," he said in reply, but he left the cynicism out.

She noticed, and her eyes narrowed. Casting him a measured look, she moved to stand next to him at the balustrade. "I know you do. Which is why I'm here, rather than hiding in the north tower or some other predictable place." She saw his confused look and smiled briefly. "I like to give my counselors some chance of finding me."

"Ah."

"But why I'm here… we have known each other for quite some time, haven't we, Marnon?"

"Since your birth, your Majesty."

"Hmm. You do know that I regard you… that is to say, you are one of my closest friends…"

Marnon flinched. "Please; may I?"

Swanwhite seemed almost as pained as he was. "Please."

"Your Majesty, I have nothing but the greatest respect for you, but if this is an offer of marriage, I must decline."

"I thought you would," the queen said after a brief silence, her voice quiet. She slumped, resting her elbows on the marble railing, her face turned out towards the sea. She toyed pensively with the coronet. "I do not think that I could, in honesty, marry anyone but you, Marnon."

"Nor I you, Queen Swanwhite." He rested his own elbows on the balustrade and matched her gaze. "I love you- have loved you- since you were very young." He felt rather than saw her stiffen at this, but he kept his eyes trained on the distant horizon as he forged ahead. "But I cannot marry you. I- I would lose myself in you. You do not realize your own power, I think." He shrugged. "You are so strong, you burn with such fire; you cannot help but consume everyone around you."

"It is what I am," the queen said softly.

"It is, your Majesty." He turned his eyes from the sea to rest on her face. "I love you, Queen Swanwhite, but you… I would make no king, and no husband for you. I could be a king, perhaps, or a husband to you, but not both at once. Not for you."

"Hmm." Her face was very pale, and that thoughtful look had entered her eyes again. "It may be that I am doomed to rule alone. You say you will not, and I do not believe there is another who can. I would _consume_ them, as you say."

"You would rule alone most excellently."

She gave him a warm, if sad, smile. Pensive, Marnon thought. He saw her withdraw into herself. "My dear friend," she said, before placing the coronet back on her head.

The silence that followed was different than any silence they had shared before.


	9. Never Taste of Death But Once

It's the first funeral she ever attends, and it's an elaborate thing, full of all the rituals Narnia has accumulated over the centuries. It is her grandfather who goes to meet eternity this day, he of the greying flanks and the dim eye; he of the elaborate stories and the palsied hands; he whose memories reach back a century. She doesn't even know how to go about missing him.

She's not yet reached her third year, still a child in her family's eyes, and as she stands off to one side of the mound, her mother reaches out with one slender hand and strokes her chestnut hair. With a bored sigh and a stamp of one foreleg, she leans into her mother's flank and tries to ignore how the ceremonial tail braid is pinching.

Halfway through the chanting, she drifts off, waking only when the last handful of dirt is sprinkled over the burial mound. They spend the rest of the night dancing, hooves pounding and hands weaving and eyes shining and tails flying, remembering their dead in rituals of life overflowing.

In the end, her elder brothers drink too much spiced wine and are herded away by their impatient mother and their laughing father. She spares one backward glance for the scene, watching as cousins and friends spin and leap; though death is still only a word, she finds strange comfort in the knowledge that she will someday rest peacefully here by the river, sleeping with her ancestors.

* * *

It's the last funeral she ever attends, and it's her own. There are no elaborate rituals, no chants, no fires, no dancing. No family members clasp hands and meld grief for her; all passed years ago, fading into death before her, though her own years are still few. Those that survive her are quiet, stoic; death is an old acquaintance by now.

Her body is matted with dirt and sweat and blood, but someone young and as-yet unbroken has wiped the gore from her face. It doesn't make a difference: she still looks far older than her twenty-eight winters.

There is no burial mound waiting to accept her; the ground is solid beneath its mantle of snow, the earth cold and frozen and empty as the grey sky above. Fire consumes her body, catching her lifeless hair and, briefly, putting flame into her lusterless chestnut coat.

The paltry group of soldiers- some half-dead, others hollowed out- murmur empty benedictions and griefless farewells as they slip away from the site. No one mourns anymore; the dead, it is whispered, are to be envied.

When the leaping flames subside, and the coals cool, the ashes disappear silently beneath suffocating snow.

* * *

There is no mound by the river, but her sleep is peaceful nonetheless.


	10. The Passing of the King

"You truly mean to do it, then?"

Sunlight fell through the Tree's leaves, catching the muted silver of the apples and casting soft, dappled patterns on the faces of the two beneath the spreading branches.

The King laughed softly. "Yes, Rhonan, truly."

The bay sighed. "He has spoken of it so often in these past years… I wondered when you would call him for this last feat." She paused, and her voice became as soft as a Horse's can. "Indeed, I believe he has been waiting for your call since my mother's death."

A look of brief mourning passed over the King's aged face. "Perhaps I have waited too long to call my old friend to my side; yet I was not ready- not yet."

"And now, my King?"

"I have lived to see my son's children grow, to see my land blossom. I have lived with grief and without regret. I have lived to know the longing that comes to all mortals… yes, I am ready."

"As am I, old friend."

Rhonan started at the new voice, her black wings spreading and her forefeet rising off the ground in surprise; but the King merely smiled. With the patience given only to those of many years, he rose slowly from where he had been seated at the Tree's base to go to the great winged Horse who stood in the slanting sunlight.

Though the once-strawberry coat was now generously flecked with grey, the great wings of chestnut and copper where as strong and as graceful as the day they had been gifted, and the spark in the Horse's eyes had not faded.

The King stopped but a handbreadth from the Horse and raised one frail hand to stroke the greying flank. "A call grows in my mind, good Fledge, and with it the image of an everlasting garden." Fledge breathed in exaltation; the King smiled. "Will you bear me, old friend, as you once bore the little lord and lady?"

"My King, it is only for this that I have lived."

Fledge knelt and slowly, yet with a grace that belied his age, the King slipped onto the father of all winged Horses, settling himself before the flashing wings. Fledge rose and the King on his back straightened, seeming suddenly younger to Rhonan as she stood in the shade of the Tree.

"Away then, Greatheart!" the King cried, and his voice was like a trumpet. "The Lion calls us home!"

At that, a wind sprang up in the east and the great Horse, with a short run, surged into the air, the draft of his copper wings stirring the leaves of the Tree. They rose higher and higher, King and Legend, until they were no more than a speck of bronze against the blue sky.

Rhonan watched as her great father and the first King of Narnia were borne westward on the wind; watched until they could not be seen against the western sky; watched as they faded from Narnia, called by the Lion not to die but to go into the West, and to the great Garden that waited there until the very ending of the world.

---

"_Is it true, Mama? Did Grandfather truly bear King Frank away into the west, to the garden at the end of the world?"_

"_Little one, of course it is. Did I not see these things with my own eyes?"_

"_And so King Frank did not die?"_

"_No, love; nor did your Grandfather. But their time here was done, and Aslan needed them elsewhere."_

"_But are they still there, Mama? Still there in the garden at the end of the world?"_

"_None save Aslan know that, love. Aslan tells us only our own story, after all, and when Grandfather and the King went into the West, they passed out of this story. But you will see them someday, and then they can tell you their tale for themselves. For now, though, it is late, and time for all good foals to be abed." _


	11. Dulce et Decorum

It is the summer of 1911. Polly Plummer is twenty-two years old, and she is beautiful.

"Polly," Thomas says, his voice very soft. "Polly Plummer, you are so very beautiful."

He takes her hands in his, trapping her slender fingers within the slightly damp cage of his own. "You are so very beautiful, Polly Plummer," he says again, and his voice is louder now.

She raises her eyes from where they had rested on their intertwined hands to look into his own- brown and soft, soft like the rest of him- and she smiles. "And you, Thomas, are too kind."

"Never, Polly." He bites his lip and her heart plummets. "I would- my dear Polly,"- and he drops to one knee, still clutching her fingers- "my dear Polly, I have spoken to your family. Dear Polly, dear beautiful, kind, loving Polly, will you become my wife?"

And the only thought in her head is _How like Thomas_, _to soften even passion._ But it is of no import- there is no passion in Thomas anyhow.

Yet he is kneeling before her, a supplicant, his soft brown eyes expectant. She lets her own eyes slide away, across the parlor, lets them rest on the patterned paper. But her sight goes on, on to blue skies and green hills and a Tree. And the next thought that occurs to her is, _I am not kind_.

And it is enough.

She drops her eyes to Thomas and says, gently, "Thomas."

"Polly!" He leaps to his feet, and in that moment she almost loves him.

Almost.

She places one hand on his cheek, marveling at how young he is. And then she leans forward, and just before their lips connect she sees the astonishment in his eyes.

Where he finds the passion for such a kiss she cannot say, but he returns her intimacy, winding those soft hands around her neck, loosing her auburn hair.

And in that wild abandon, she almost loves him a second time.

Almost.

It is she who ends the intimacy, she who draws, ever so gently, away from his embrace. She steps back and regards the soft eyes, the decorous dress, the already-bureaucratic set of the mouth. The youth.

"No," she says.

And it is enough.

And she does not look back as she walks away, as she walks out of her own family's parlor. She does not look back as Thomas sputters incoherently, as his face turns red. She does not look as she steps out onto the street, her collar ruffled and her carefully applied makeup ever so slightly smudged and her long hair unbound and brushing her neck most scandalously.

There is nothing kind about her in this moment, nothing sweet, nothing proper; and it is enough, because London has never looked more like Narnia, and her sight has never been so clear.

It is the summer of 1911. Polly Plummer is twenty-two, and she is beautiful, and she is free.


	12. In the Early Days

When Narnia was still young, indeed, when she was just hours old, and the first King and Queen had been crowned beneath the Tree, and the Lord Digory and the Lady Polly had returned to their own world, and Jadis the Half-Giant had fled far from the good and strong borders of the land, the Lion walked in darkness in the North.

The North was cold, cold, and bitter; frozen and flat beneath the dance of the singing stars, and the Lion walked alone in the bitter cold, and He did not sing. His great paws fell soft as velvet and His breath misted in the frigid air and all was silent as the Lion walked in the North, for the Lion had come on behalf of the Emperor-Beyond-the-Sea.

And so alone and silent walked the Lion across the frozen flat North, until he came to the Hill.

The Hill stood alone in the darkness beneath the stars, and the cold of the North did not touch it, and green grass grew from base to peak, and on the peak of the Hill stood the Stones. Tall they were, tall and blacker than the darkness of the North as they stood on the grassy Hill beneath the stars in the early days of the world.

And the Lion climbed the Hill, and a whisper of wind stirred the grass from base to peak as he climbed it, and the Stones stood tall and black as the Lion looked upon them. And it was for this task that the Emperor-Beyond-the-Sea had sent the Lion to walk in the frozen North beneath the stars.

Tall, tall, the Stones rose, blacker than the blackness of the night, but the Lion was great and mighty beside the tallness. The Lion stood at the base of the Stones on the peak of the green Hill in the far North, and he brought with him golden light, so that the blackness of the Stones was like unto fire beneath the singing stars.

And the Lion breathed a mighty breath.

And the breath of the Lion touched the Stones gently, gently, and as it touched the Stones letters appeared there; great letters, as of fire, on the black tallness of the Stones, and the letters were cut deep, deeper than the length of a spear, and the deep letters glowed with the fire of the sun in the country of the Emperor-Beyond-the-Sea.

And the Lion looked upon the fire-letters that he had breathed upon the Stones that stood upon the grassy Hill in the frozen North beneath the singing stars and he said, "It has begun."

---

In the far, cold North, beneath the singing stars, there is a grassy Hill that remains untouched by time. On the Hill stand the Stones, and on the Stones are inscribed the letters of fire.

And in the far, frozen North, the Stones on the Secret Hill spell out the Deep Magic that is written on the Scepter of the Emperor-Beyond-the-Sea, and it was for this task that the Lion walked in darkness beneath the singing stars in the early days of the world.

---

"_Tell you what is written on that very Table of Stone which stands beside us? Tell you what is written in letters deep as a spear is long on the fire-stones on the Secret Hill? Tell you what is engraved on the scepter of the Emperor-Beyond-the-Sea?"_


	13. Requiem

_once_

The first time Jadis takes a life, she is nine years old, and it is an accident.

(Later, during the war, she will spread the rumor that the first death was cold and calculated and purposeful. This is a lie.)

She is performing sacred rites in the temple and, though she is only nine years old, she is old enough to knows that assassins fear the gods almost as little as does her family. The power rises in her, then, heavy and fast and_ gods spare me_. It is quick and unintentional and when it is over, there is a dead man on the temple floor. His eyes are blank and his face slack and his features unfamiliar.

The first words in her mind are a prayer.

They tumble over and over, words of penitence and sacrifice, offering this soul to the goddess of death if she will only _please, please goddess, please_…

The second thought she harbors is this: that life should not be so easy to destroy, so effortless to steal away.

(Later, she will call herself the goddess's instrument, and she will sleep peacefully.)

_

* * *

twice_

The second time is completely different; she is sixteen and this death is the most carefully planned event she ever performs. It _is_ cold and calculating, the second time, and her tools are not magic and fear but rather sacred steel and her own slender hands.

(Later, during the war, the rumor will circulate that Jadis had nothing to do with the murder of her first lover, that it was the goddess's hands that wielded the blade. This is a lie.)

She slips into his room in the cool of the evening, when the spices are heavy on the air, and she wakes him with a kiss before she drives the blade home. She smiles at the fear in his eyes and stops the first words of the penitent's prayer before they are little more than a whisper in her mind.

It is in this moment, with his blood still warm on her hands, that she decides that she prefers dealing death with steel. There is more power in it, more _life_, and she laughs softly as she slips from his room.

(Later, she will tell herself that she is the goddess incarnate, and that the blood will never stain her hands.)

_

* * *

thrice_

The third life that Jadis takes is the first casualty of the war, and she barely gives it any notice.

(Later, when the war grows desperate and her sister gains ground with each passing day, a rumor will circulate that this first death was a great victory, that Jadis knew the man she casually killed was her sister's confidant. This is a lie.)

She catches him on the palace steps and she kills him for spite, kills him because she cannot kill her sister. He falls without a fight, her sister's name on his lips, and her mind moves on to battle plans and assassins before his blood even has a chance to cool.

He is nothing, and no one, and it is only hours or days later that she realizes that his blood has stained her silken skirts.

(Later, she will order a general to have the skirts scrubbed. When they are returned without a stain, she will burn them anyway.)

_

* * *

deplorable_

The last life Jadis takes in her own world is Charn's.

(Later, when she is awoken by two children and her world ends, she will spread the rumor that the life was hers to take. This is the last and greatest lie that Charn will ever hear.)

The Word fills her with power- fills her to the brim so that her mind is full of it, overflowing with it- and she cannot but cry with pain as the power leaves her.

And then the world explodes into death, and she can only think of the sweetness of the Word on her tongue, and how its power filled her, and even as she stands alone on a dead world she contemplates saying it again, so as to taste of its sweetness.

It is, she realizes, the best and most beautiful way to kill.

* * *

(Later, she will whisper the Word in her mind, and know she has killed the goddess of death, and there will be no prayer on her lips.)


	14. Changing Rushes

Isamene was on her knees in the courtyard when he finally came to speak with her. She knew it was him by the way he stopped and waited, courteously as always, just outside of the area of smooth, white stone she'd only just finished scrubbing.

She ignored him.

"Isamene, you father is not pleased."

"Of course he's not," she answered shortly, rising slowly and wincing as her knees tried to seize up. That was the price one had to pay for clean courtyards, though, when one's family was too beggared to keep on the proper number of servants.

"He did want the match very badly."

She snorted. "My father, or his lovely wife?"

"Isamene…"

"Gurion," she replied, her tone just as exasperated. She finally looked him in the eye and was pleased to see the amusement written on his face. "You know it's true."

"Hmm. Perhaps. But I also know that it's not something that should be said lightly, truth or not."

"And why not? She can do nothing to me, other than try to marry me off. And we've both seen how well _that_ came out." Isamene scooped up her bucket and untied her apron. Walking- or, more accurately, _limping_ to where he waited, she forced both into his hands and stretched luxuriantly under the pleasant morning sun.

When she had stretched the stiffness from her back and neck, she turned an appraising eye on the morning's handiwork. It was clean enough, she supposed. And, more importantly, it was hers again. That great, foolish, careless party of lords and nobles and clingers-on to the king had finally moved on.

And the king himself, of course: he, too, was gone.

And that was the biggest relief.

For a week she'd watched as her home- the home that she labored so lovingly to maintain- was taken over and disrespected and absolutely bankrupt by both her father's mad designs on the throne and the king's general carelessness. What care had Caspian, King of Narnia, that his Duke was squandering his children's' future to host a great tourney? What care had Caspian, Liberator of Old Narnia, that his followers were destroying the house that was so unwillingly made available to them? She was glad they were gone; o, Aslan yes, and she wouldn't weep if she never saw her king and sovereign lord again.

Suddenly she asked, "How is my step-mother taking news of my… disappointment?"

Gurion choke on a laugh, and she smiled again. "The lady is… most distraught."

"Oh, yes," she murmured, rolling her eyes. "I am certain that she is. Foolish woman," she continued, "hoping that she could marry me off to the king so that her infant son can inherit my estate. As though I would ever allow that to happen."

And she would fight tooth and nail- and soul and life and death, too- to keep her claim on her father's estate. Narnian law said that the eldest child inherited, be they male or female. Isamene blessed the two Queens in the ancient tetrachy that had enabled such a law to exist. Her father's estate- the beautiful, beggared halls; the failing vineyards; the stunted forests- would all revert to her on her father's death.

Unless, of course, she married someone like King Caspian.

Which would, for this reason, never happen while she drew breath.

"She kept going on," Gurion added, "about how your freckled complexion and "notoriously squinting eyes" prevented the king from being pleased with you."

"Notoriously squinting eyes?" she repeated incredulously. "I should be offended, except, well, I'm not. Besides, the king failed to please me."

"Oh?"

"Indeed." Putting on her haughtiest manner, Isamene looked down her nose and said, " He is young, and is of a disposition to kill giants. I was most decidedly not pleased."

"Indeed."

She nodded, tired of the game. It had been a wearying week. "Truly. Had he expressed a desire to marry me, I don't know what I would have done. Refused him, I suppose, and been disowned by my father. I could never marry one such as the king. Imagine, a man who didn't know that the rushes in the banquet halls had to be changed."

"Imagine such a thing," Gurion murmured. "Scandalous."

"Now you're mocking me."

"Perhaps a bit."

She laughed, and looked back to her ancient, crumbling inheritance. There was still days' worth of cleaning to be done; gardening that needed immediate attention; servants to be assured that their pay would come, somehow; new rushes to be fetched.

But the king was gone, and Galma was hers again.


	15. One Hundred Years of Stone

"_I am very glad that you agreed to speak with me, Lieutenant Ravnic. I understand that this cannot be… easy for you."_

"_Not at all, your Majesty. I do wonder though, if there is anything I can tell you that will be of any practical use."_

"_I do not seek practical application so much as I seek knowledge, Lieutenant. Anything that you can remember- anything at all- would be most useful."_

_

* * *

_

"Oh, is the little birdie lost?" The Hag approaches with a malicious grin, her eyes glinting hungrily as she nears Ravnic. He can see her calculating how much meat she'll be able to get from his bones.

"Stay away from me," he spits, hopping back along the snow-covered ground, fervently hoping that someone, anyone will come along. Anyone. _Please._

"Oh, but the little birdie is all alone, and hurt." He tries to pull his wounded wing in closer to his body, as though if the damned thing can't _see_ it, she'll forget about it. It's a desperate, instinctual hope, but then, Hags are notoriously stupid when it comes to practical things. "Poor little birdie should come to my home, to dinner."

"Not bloody likely."

The Hag grins and makes a grab for him, just missing his wing. "Ooh, ooh, little lost birdie shouldn't be so smart. I'll have to make a nice stew out of the little birdie, make him go down sweet, eh?"

"May you choke on the bones, you wretch." A poor insult, really, but what else is there to fall back on?

The Hag, too, damn her, can hear the desperation in the words, and she only grins and moves closer, crowding the Eagle against the frozen brush. For the first time in his life, Ravnic wishes he were smaller. She reaches for him with her filthy hands and then…

"Rechys, what have you found?"

The words nearly freeze the blood in his veins. He knows that he prayed for anyone to come, but the Lion must have a sense of humor sicker than Tash's to send Ravnic _her_.

The Hag dithers. "My- my Lady. Your Imperial Majesty." She sweeps her filthy rags into a semblance of a curtsy. "An Eagle. It's- it's a rebel spy, your Majesty. I'm certain of it."

"Indeed." Ravnic forces himself to look her in the face, in the eyes. Her voice is soft, like snow falling on water. He shudders. "And what would an Eagle be doing here- so near to my palace- at such a time as this?"

He can't help himself. "_Your_ palace," he sneers.

Her calm look hardens. "Yes. _My_ palace._ My _country."

Ravnic can hear the small, sensible voice in his head warning him away from what he is about to do. But he wouldn't be an Eagle if he didn't get one last jibe at the damned Witch before she kills him. And so he disregards the voice that sounds so like his mother's and replies, "_Aslan's_ country."

* * *

"_It is impossible to describe being stone. The closest you can come to it- and this really is a very poor comparison, your Majesty- is to imagine that you are blind and deaf and dumb. You're trapped in a world of absolute silence, absolute darkness. You can't move. But you can _feel_."_

"_And what did you feel?"_

"_It's- you can't imagine it. I don't wish to say that what I felt was pain, but that's as close as I can get to the truth. It's more… there is no sense of the passage of time, you understand; thoughts are muddled. But you can sense, eventually, that you are alive, that you are trapped, somehow. You can feel that your blood is stone, feel the weight of it in your veins. You feel as though you are crushed beneath the whole of the earth, and squeezed between the mountains, and thrown into an abyss. All you want is for everything to end, to die… but you _can't_."_

_

* * *

_

The first thing he is aware of- and calling it awareness is a lie, really- is the pain in his wing. Acute, shooting; it's as painful as it was when it was first broken, and it won't _stop_.

And then there are other things: a dead weight all around him, a pressure, a pain. It's above and below and outside and inside and it's only then that he realizes what has happened, because even hell couldn't be this bad, could it?

And he waits- for a second, for a year, because there's no time here- for the pain to cease, for his breath to be stolen away or his heart to fail… but though he's not breathing, and though his heart's not beating, he doesn't die.

And the pain won't stop.

* * *

"_Eventually, you become capable of thinking of something other than the pain, but never for very long. It's very difficult, your Majesty, to force yourself past the pain. Even the smallest of thoughts takes your entire concentration. But then again, there's no outside influence, no distraction. And no way to tell the passage of time."_

"_And so you spent the entirety of… Lieutenant, how long were you stone before Aslan returned?"_

"_Three years, two months, and eleven days…"_

"_I wish that it had not been so, Ravnic."_

"… _after the start of the Winter, I was turned to stone."_

"_After the start of the Wint- Lion's mane, Ravnic! You were… ninety-six years… and I saw you in the battle that day..."_

"_Oh, I killed a great many Hags at Beruna, your Majesty."_

_

* * *

_

It's like floating… in a blackness so deep and measureless that, after a time, he feels as though he's always been here. What had been the world starts to fade, until there are only flashes of lucidity that interrupt the droning pain.

The flashes of consciousness that bravely- and, ultimately, futilely- rear their heads are odd, disjointed. _A stunted peach tree fighting its way through a field of weeds… a beautiful young female with a black tail that gleams blue in the sunlight… the feeling of horror rising as the falling snow won't _stop_… a look of greed and hunger and the Hag's groping hands..._

Eventually, the flashes of lucidity cease, and the real world fades, and all that is left besides the pain is the image of a face as beautiful and as cold as ice and the words "_My country…"_

_

* * *

_

"_That's the real danger, your Majesty: forgetting. I met creatures, after Aslan came, who had gotten so lost in the blackness that they couldn't find their way out. I can't blame them, but neither can I condone them. It is one thing to be afraid, to wish to escape pain, and quite another to deny Aslan and Narnia and retreat to the familiar darkness of a hundred years of stone."_

"_And you, Ravnic?"_

"… _I cannot deny, your Majesty, that things became… very bad. There was a point at which I forgot my own name, and it is only by Aslan's grace that I am not as much of a wreck as are those who surrendered themselves."_

"_Yet you are here, Ravnic. I do wonder, though, do you remember when Aslan came?"_

"_Remember? Your Majesty, after stone, Aslan was like… it wasn't even like being reborn. It was more… I felt as if Aslan had torn me down to nothing and built me up again, all in the space of a single breath's time."_

_

* * *

_

The warm breath is the first thing he feels in nearly a hundred years, and it carries with it such terrible beauty that Ravnic's first action in his new life is to weep.

And then he heaviness and the pain of the stone drop away and the world comes rushing back. He whirls, expecting a twinge from his wing and the insidious giggle of the Hag, but there is nothing of the Winter, not even snow. Instead there is soft grass and a warm breeze and little girl who stares at him most concernedly.

"Is your wing feeling better?" she asks. Ravnic can't process the question. He stares instead; stares at her bright dress and her bright hair and the bright half-smile that's slowly fading from her bright face. "Sir? Your wing… it should be healed… I saw that it had been broken when…"

And then he realizes that his wing _is_ healed, and that the Winter _is _gone, and that he can think without fighting the monotonous pain. And he smiles a Raptor's smile, because this means that a Hag is about to die. "Ravnic, gentle lady. My name is Ravnic."

* * *

"_And so now?"_

"_Now? Now, your Majesty, I am free, and I enjoy the feel of snow against my wings- if there's a warm nest to return to- and I stay out of caves, and I kill Hags where I find them."_

"_Ravnic, there is more to it than that."_

"_Nothing, your Majesty, that you would find useful."_

"_Hmm, perhaps not, but I would know, if you can bear to tell it."_

"_Your Majesty… _why_?"_

"_Because I would have myself remember eyes such as yours when you speak of this. Because I would see to it that I am never a part of such a thing again."_

"_Your Majesty-"_

"_Ravnic, I, too, know Aslan's grace, but I would still have the truth. Please."_

"_Very well. In truth? The nightmares come and go… and when they come, they are very bad indeed. But, your Majesty, there is also the sun, and the wind under my wings, and the warmth of summer. What's past is past; I won't forget, but I won't dwell, either. I am no longer stone."_


	16. Of First Impressions

There was a Human on the beach.

Ashahn, floating only a short distance from the shoreline, watched tensely, one hand curing instinctively around the hilt of her dagger. The Human alone might not have been such a danger- she certainly would have been able to issue an order to her people, keep them from this area at the foot of the ancient Citadel- but there was another factor, one that made her teeth clench and her tail jerk: one of her people, Lion take it all, was already here.

And she was about to, from the look of things, approach the Human.

There was a distant part of Ashahn's mind that suggested that, perhaps, this Human- only a young girl by her looks- would do no harm. This calm voice suggested that she should pay heed to the calls of the Gulls and the other Birds, calls that told of the defeat of Jadis the Witch and the coming of Aslan's chosen rulers. The Winter had ended, after all; perhaps there was nothing to fear.

Or, perhaps, the larger and more cynical part of her said, that part of her mind and those Birds were optimistic fools who were overly eager to forget what had happened the last time one with the blood of Adam had laid claim to the throne of Narnia. And Ashahn had not forgotten.

The memories rose, unbidden: images of mutilated Mer-folk, warnings sent to Ashahn after her refusal to submit; the day the mouth of the Great River had turned crimson from the slaughter; the Minotaur's laughter and his mocking _"A two-course meal in one creature; and so much more delicate than Fauns."_ Oh, no, Ashahn had not forgotten.

But she was hesitant to approach, now, fearful that the Human might not be so alone after all, that she and her unseen companions would take the appearance of a second member of the clan as a threat and would harm the young Mermaid who waited in the waves. So she could not approach, but neither could she go, and so she was forced to watch, and wait, and pray.

Her heart rose in her throat as she watched the Mermaid- damn it all, it was Lorna, and hadn't she warned her about swimming off alone only a fortnight ago?- raise her upper body from the surf and she, Vaida of her clan, flinched as the Human saw her visitor. Ashahn waited for a call for troops, or for a threatening move, but there was only a brief moment of silence followed by an "Oh!" of amazement that carried even over the breakers.

Cautious and curious and fighting off a vague sensation of hope that was, no doubt, false, Ashahn allowed the waves to bring her closer, that she might hear and see and protect. She saw the Human- whom she could tell, from this distance, was quite young- wade into the surf, and this surprised her. She tensed once more, waiting…

"You- you're a Mermaid!" the Human said. Ashahn snorted. Lorna nodded. "That's wonderful! Aslan said that we would meet all sorts of people, but... Mermaids!"

"And you," Lorna reached out with one hand, wonderingly- "you're a Human."

"That's right. Oh! I'm Lucy." And the Human promptly stuck out one hand and caught Lorna's in her own. Ashahn only barely stopped herself from surging forward. Lorna froze. The Human laughed. "It's alright; Mr. Tumnus didn't know what to do either. I suppose I shall stop doing it." She dropped Lorna's hand, but continued to smile. "I never really saw the point of it, in any case. And, oh, I've been rude again, haven't I? What's your name?"

She was quick and disconcerting, moving from one thing to the next like a Dolphin; it was no wonder that, when Lorna answered, she stuttered.

"L-Lorna."

"That's beautiful." Lu- the Human's, Ashahn reminded herself- smile faded slightly, and Ashahn was immediately on her guard. "I wonder if-"

"Lucy! Lucy!"

And then here came the rest, Ashahn supposed. Should she go to Lorna's side now, or call out to her to flee? How many, and were they armed? Damn the Human, she thought angrily, drawing her dagger; to come just when her clan had begun to relax after the Winter. Damn them all-

"Lu! Where are you?"

The Human looked over her shoulder, at the imposing cliff and the Citadel that rested on it. "I'm coming, Peter!" she called back. She smiled once more and said, "Lorna, could I- could I visit you again? I think that I would like to know a Mermaid."

Ashahn nearly dropped her dagger.

"C-certainly," Lorna managed.

Luc- the Human- smiled again. "I think- I think that I would also like to make a friend."

Ashahn's dagger slipped through her fingers/

"Lu! Now!"

"I'm coming!" She flashed one more brilliant smile in Lorna's direction and then fled up the beach, her soaked skirts slapping against her legs as she ran. Such a contrast to the cold magnificence that Jadis that Witch had been so fond of!

Ashahn watched her until she had mounted the cliff path and then she swam to Lorna's side. The young Mermaid did not move to face her Vaida as she approached, but her shoulders tensed. Ashahn took a deep breath, steadying herself, and then...

"That was foolish, reckless, and thoughtless. You could have been killed, or captured, or Aslan only knows what," she hissed. "And I would have had to explain this." She paused and then, still looking steadfastly at the cliff face, said, "Explain yourself."

"I- I am sorry, Vaida. But she- she was so young, younger than me, and she seemed-"

"The Witch seemed harmless, too, at the first."

"Yes, Vaida."

Ashahn sighed. She was too young to handle such things. She had been happier when things were simpler, when Narnia was a place to be avoided at all costs and all that did not live in the sea was an enemy. Now, it seemed, she would have to pay heed to the Lion's irritating signs and extend some sort of trust to- to- to _Humans_.

"Go to the clan, Lorna," she commanded, as Vaida. "And send Marik and Dia to me here. I have need of them."

"Yes, Vaida." There was a long moment of silence.

"Well?"

And the Mermaid was gone, her tail flashing as she disappeared beneath the water.

Looking up at the cliff and the white Citadel that rested at its summit, Ashahn sighed. Soon Marik and Dia would join her, she thought, and she would have to consult them as to whom to send to the Citadel. Because Aslan would not let her leave the Humans in peace.

Because the Winter was over.

Because this Lucy would like to know a Mermaid.

* * *

_This is a bit of backstory for my longer story, _Upon the Sundering Sea_. Any of you who have read that will, I hope, recognize Ashahn._


	17. Jagged Bits

Sometimes she almost cannot bear how _good_ Cor is. How thoughtful, how genuinely kind. She loves him, yes, oh Ta- _Aslan_, how she loves him, but there are times when cannot bear being near him.

The littlest, kindest thing sparks it: a flower on her pillow when she wakes, its barely unfolded bloom still wet with mountain dew; a gloriously formed bottle that she'd mentioned only in passing, and days ago, at that; his early escape from a trade meeting to take light lunch with her. Such things as lives are made better by, such things as are more oft forgotten with the passage of time than not. Sometimes, she cannot bear them.

His kindnesses run contrary to all her instincts; she would stare where he smiles gently; she would brush past where he speaks a soft word. Such little things are foreign to her. She is a woman of heat and passion and grand events. For her, such small gentilities should not be of import. And yet, when Cor performs them, they are the most important things in the world.

And on these days, when every haughtiness in her flares like a storm, she cannot help but see how they oppose each other; his warm strength, veiled in softness. Her jagged edges, barely concealing heat and temper and fierce pride. And, on these days, they clash.

She rants and raves, throwing all her jaggedness into him, hoping to crack his kindness. She screams and storms and insults- and he argues, oh, yes, but never with her passion. And, somehow, it is always she who leaves, she who leaves him standing there, with her jagged bits eaten up by his strength.

But, later, when her heat has subsided and, not uncommonly, when the night has fallen, she goes back. Most nights, he is asleep- he knows better than to wait up for her. On these nights, she stands by his side and watches him breathe.

And before dawn, she rouses him and speaks nary a word, pulling him behind her to the stables, onto a horse, up treacherous mountain paths that she has finally learned to follow, and out into a clearing on the high peaks to catch the sun's first rays.

And there, in the clear dawn light that is almost as bright as that of the desert, all their jagged bits and strengths are not opposed.

(_You are desert night and desert day, Aravis, my love. Never in between._

_And tell me, Cor, could you love me were I any thing save for what I am?_)


	18. Lavish of Oaths

A shuffle in the darkness, a quiet groan as he wakes from an uneasy slumber. She is at his side in an instant, all gentle hands and quiet words and a soft lap in which he can rest his tormented head.

As she sits and strokes his sweat-drenched hair, lulling him back into a sleep that will be deeper and calmer than the one before, she listens to the words of adoration that slip so easily from his mouth- _my kind, beautiful lady; my one true love_- and she smiles to herself in the darkness as he descends into sleep.

* * *

She drives out the darkness for one hour- one painful, brilliant hour- and now there are no fond murmurings. Now there are only the words he has screamed countless nights before- _sorceress, enchantress, murderess, witch_- and his mad railing.

And she stands at his side and watches him struggle, a faint smile never far from her perfect lips.

And when his strength is spent, and he hangs slack against the ropes that bind him, she leans in to stroke his sweat-drenched hair, whispering, _Go to sleep, my one true love_.

And she smiles to herself as he descends into despair.


	19. Terre des Hommes

It's a thing. Points to those who know what the chapter title references. Oh! And, because I think it's fun, I'll do a prompt chapter for the 200th reviewer, if they like.

* * *

_The first stars tremble as if shimmering in green water. Hours must pass before their glimmer hardens into the frozen glitter of diamonds. I shall have a long wait before I witness the soundless frolic of the shooting stars. In the profound darkness of certain nights I have seen the sky streaked with so many trailing sparks that it seemed to me a great gale must be blowing through the outer heavens. - Antoine de Saint-Exupéry_

_

* * *

_

The boy dropped the mug in front of him and squirmed uncomfortably, all wide eyes and tousled hair and dark, twisting hands, until Belan's curt nod dismissed him. He scurried off across the common room, avoiding several heavy-handed cuffs and the occasional drunkard. Belan watched the boy until he disappeared into the shadowy warren of corridors that led to the kitchen and then dropped his eyes to the drink.

Picking it up gingerly, the earthenware smooth in hands that were far more accustomed to tempered steel and gritty sand, he eyed it carefully and took a generous mouthful. Smooth as sand wasn't, it slipped down his throat and left a surprising burn in its wake. It settled in his stomach like a serpent, tensed and lethal, sending rays of shockingly bright heat radiating through his body.

He would have liked to gasp and choke, push the brew away and ask for something that didn't resemble swallowing live coals, but he wasn't inclined to draw the room's many eyes, so he only took another burning drink and thanked the powers that be that it wasn't full of desert.

The crowd in the common room ebbed and flowed; travelers and businessmen and those with less savory intentions floating in and out, drifting into the one of many inns in Calormen's preeminent port city. Ashet could be quite a sampling of people, both foreign and not. From where Belan sat, slowly sipping as though if by imbibing more fire he could quell the coals, he could hear all of Calormen; the clipped, tight accent of the north; the broad bastard tongue of the coast; the strangely musical monotone of the great desert region; even, faintly, the sounds and cadences of the far south that were barely recognizable as a language. He wouldn't have stood out had he been revealed, but force of long habit kept him quiet, kept him withdrawn.

Some secrets he would rather keep.

When the drink was finally gone and the common room was nearly empty, he rose, showering sand as he went. He almost laughed at the quiet sound of the grains against the table and floor; it sounded oddly loud to his ears. He was too used to the near-silent whisper of sand on sand.

A girl emerged and beckoned him forward, gesturing with her hands. In the port cities, words couldn't be relied upon. Much safer were hands, eyes, the movement of the body. He followed her quiet steps, weary and staggering and knowing he must look like Tash and all his demons and been set upon him. Down a poorly lit hall that set every guard he had on edge, up a flight of filthy stairs that had seen not only better days but better eras and finally into a room that would have better suited a Dwarf.

The girl pushed her slim figure in first, lighting a taper that smoked instantly and gesturing to the pallet. The lack of wind terrified him.

"Anything else?"

He turned at the words, turned at the musical monotone not quite veiled by the half-heartedly adopted bastard accent that innkeepers liked their girls to have. Her eyes said more, desert stars replaced by coastal coins, acceptance and indifference that didn't quite hide the twisting of the slender hands, so much like the boy's hands. He had to wonder if she was any older.

His eyes wandered up and down her form, not looking at her but through her, her physicality merely an anchor for his roaming thoughts. She squirmed, finally, and he realized with a sudden burst of guilt that he'd pinned her down, as surely as if he'd restrained her, and that this, perhaps, was worse, because then at least she would have known what to expect.

He dropped his eyes like stones to the unswept floor, finding vague patterns in the scattered sand of a dozen nameless past travelers. His cheeks flushed, or they would have if they hadn't known the desert's sun so intimately. "No- no."

Ignoring the confusion that spread across her face- too young, too young for this situation, for this place, for this whole damned _country_-, he fumbled with the purse's drawstrings, fingers much clumsier than they should have been. Finally he pried the bag open and reached inside, indiscriminately retrieving gold and copper and silver. She took them warily, still confused, and fled to the door as soon as he withdrew his hand.

The door fell shut with an obscenely loud bang and she disappeared, off to guide another traveler or perhaps off to stare in confusion at the coins given by one whose vain wish was to put the desert stars back in those dead eyes. But where didn't matter: she was gone and he was alone, abandoned even by wind and sand and star. He would have preferred their company to this uncomfortable civilization, but another desert night would have killed him, would have left him cold and sand-coated in the morning and the desert wind would have slicked the flesh and muscle from his bones, left him clean and white and empty beneath a desert sun and stars that had seen it all far too many times to involve themselves.

But there were things he had to do even now, things that kept him from giving in to the desert's call in his bones.

But he knew- knew like he knew the dance of the stars, like he knew the changing of the seasons and the turning of the tides- that the desert got its way sooner or later and that he wouldn't have excuses forever. But for now… for now. Push away those thought. They didn't do anyone any good.

Checking that the thin drapes over the window kept everything in the pitiful excuse for a room hidden from prying eyes, he forced all the long-built, hard-learned cautions away and raised sun and wind-chapped hands to unwind his flimsy, fragile protection. Warriors had their shields, beasts their teeth; for himself, he had stained and oft-mended cotton, the original color unrecognizable and forgotten under a short age of use. Thin from age but stiff with sand, the turban fell away, and half the desert with it.

Not bothering to fold or smooth, he let it slide through his hands, feeling the gentle, familiar scratch of ingrained sand rough against his palms as it slithered into a lifeless heap on the floor.

His hands then went about their business of touching his hair, loosening the leather thong, combing out the tangled chestnut locks that would have given him away surely as a signpost. As the strands of filthy, sweat-and-sand encrusted hair were finally released from their long-accustomed place, he let out an unintentional moan of relief and murmured the words that he'd not dared to voice in months: _Aslan be praised_.

With the words came a whole host of other thoughts best left untouched in this foreign place: winter snows and the whisper of the wind through the Shuddering Wood and the murmur of Glasswater; the ever-lovely dance of the Nymphs and the golden Western wine and the King's blessing. All these things he had buried under layers of an accent long-studied and a sword well-wielded and lies oft-spoken; all these things he had left behind so that, one day, he might return to them.

But many days and many miles had passed since those things had been put away, since the King's hands had come to rest on Belan's head and he had whispered, _The blessings of Aslan and the thanks of all free people go with you, Son of Narnia_. Many days and many miles, and Belan had to wonder if all these things had not been replaced by wind and sand and star.


	20. The Fox on the Left

The fox on the left looked familiar, he was certain of it now. Something in the tilt of the head or perhaps in the distinguished white-tipped tail tantalized his memory, though for the life of him he couldn't recall whom he was reminded of. Tilting his own head, he peered at the fox and said quietly, "And who are you, little one?"

There was no reply and Edmund sighed. Collapsing back into the pillows with poor grace he transferred his gaze to the ceiling. _First sign of madness,_ a snide voice in his head whispered, _talking to tapestries._

And of course the voice was right. Talking to tapestries was absolutely mad, worse even than talking to yourself. Yet if he were forced to spend one more day convalescing, he would count himself lucky not to be holding conversations with the furniture. The very thought made him growl, and he raised his head just long enough to look daggers at the blond huntsman near the center of the elaborate, fox-featuring tapestry. He'd been glaring at that huntsman rather a lot over the past few days.

After all, it was the closest he could get to glaring at Peter.

But Peter was another matter entirely, one he didn't have the energy to get angry over at the moment. Or perhaps it was more that he knew his anger at Peter was misplaced. In fact, he wasn't entirely sure that he was still angry with Peter.

Gah.

Edmund shook his head and sighed. Too much circular thinking and he would drive himself mad even faster. It was being stuck in this room, he decided suddenly. That was the source of his anger, and the driving factor in his quick decline into insanity. It was a very fine room, to be sure, with thick rugs and fine tapestries and a roaring fire when it was needed. Yet after being stuck in it for four days, Edmund was ready to trade the whole thing for a hole in the ground if he could only _move around_.

Just and patient Edmund might be, but he was not born to be idle, especially not while confined to a bed. He needed stimulation, something he could normally count on having in droves, or he began to… slip.

It hadn't been so bad in the beginning. He'd slept for hours at a time, drifting in and out of consciousness. There was always someone waiting by his bedside when he woke to offer food or drink or medicine. When he'd shaken off the fever, he was still tired enough to relish the thought of lying about doing nothing. And so the second day had passed pleasantly. And then the third day had dawned and he had felt well, or as well as he could considering that he had three broken ribs and a head wound that would have given a Centaur pause. He had wanted to be up and about, or at least allowed to move about in the rooms Lune had so graciously provided.

Lune's physician, however, had other ideas. Being inclined, in Edmund's opinion (which he had voiced loudly), to over-caution, the elderly man had prescribed at least three days of bed rest, to be enforced physically, if necessary. The physician had added that last part rather too gleefully to suit Edmund's tastes, but his protestations of perfect health had fallen on deaf ears.

And so it was that he lay in bed on the evening of the fourth day talking to tapestries. And not just talking to them- he'd given every huntsman depicted a name and a history, and rather elaborate histories at that. He was only a few more lonely hours away from mapping out complex family trees and making up stories about their descendants. Really, it wasn't such a bad idea: that one on the far left could have a son who would go on to defeat the son of Peter-Huntsman in a duel…

No. He shook his head sharply and forced himself to look out the window, though whatever view he should have seen was obscured by the fact that it was pitch-black outside, and cloudy to boot. He was fairly certain that he would have been staring at a mountain in any case, but mountains could be fun to stare at. There was always the chance of catching a glimpse of a hunting party…

But as it was there was nothing to see out the window, leaving him with several options, none of them very appealing. He could create family trees for the tapestry huntsmen, thus giving up his last vestiges of both sanity and dignity. He could stare at the ceiling (_Oh, the joy,_ the snide voice put in). Or he could call for a servant.

Grimacing at the thought of the last, Edmund shifted, ignoring the pain the motion caused his broken ribs. It wasn't that the servants at Anvard were any less polite than those at the Cair; far from it. It was simply that they weren't entirely comfortable around Edmund, and so Edmund in turn could not be entirely comfortable around them. He could imagine the resulting conversation easily enough: it would begin, as they always did, with the servant asking, "Is there anything you need, your Majesty?" and would progress downhill from there, gaining momentum as the desire for conversation and the need to vent warred within Edmund until he would finally admit defeat and send the servant away again.

Who he really wanted, of course, was Peter, despite being unsure if he was angry with Peter or not. But Peter was understandably busy, what with the three-way negotiations between Narnia, Archenland and the Islands still being in session. Peter stopped by every few hours to check on him and give him sympathy, but a check-up wasn't the same as the in-depth, long-range conversation that Edmund desperately needed.

There was a fourth option, though it was dangerous beyond telling. He might be as good as ignored now, but Edmund knew that if he so much as put one foot on the ground without the permission of Lune's wizened old physician, he'd have a sleeping draught poured down his throat before he could cry mercy. If would almost be worth it, he mused dryly, just to have a little conversation.

A quiet knock on the thick door interrupted his increasingly dark thoughts and a timid voice said, "Your Majesty? May I enter? I've your supper, Sire."

"Please, by all means," Edmund called, sitting up in bed. Supper was always a high point- it gave him something to do with his hands and, if he were desperate, he could always try to guess the herbs added to each dish. The fact that, in Archenland, they tended to limit their use of herbs to rosemary, basil, and sage put rather a damper on his guessing game. Still, though, mental stimulation of any kind was more than welcome at the moment.

The door was opened by a young maid whose name Edmund thought to be Calaine. She dipped him a brief curtsy (a remarkable feat, considering that she was carrying a loaded tray) and the heavenly smell of freshly baked bread wafted into the sick room. As the-maid-Edmund-thought-to-be-called-Calaine approached, he harbored momentary but brilliant hopes that he would be allowed to rise and eat at a table for the first time in four days. But no… there, she'd brought the tray specially designed for use by invalids, with little legs and all. He sighed dramatically.

As the-maid-Edmund-thought-to-be-called-Calaine gently smoothed his bedcovers and went about arranging the tray so that he would be comfortable, he let his eyes wander over the food selection. Bread, as he already knew, some sort of roast, potatoes. And a goblet of wine. He grinned to himself; the physician's opinion on this meal obviously had not been solicited, for Edmund could remember quite clearly the man's words about the dangers of alcohol when combined with a head wound.

"Is all to your satisfaction, your Majesty?"

"Yes, thank you… Calaine," he added hesitantly.

She beamed gratefully at him and asked, "Is there anything else your Majesty needs?"

Edmund had the sudden, horrible urge to request a bottle of wine to go with the gobletful he already had. It would serve everyone right- the physician in particular- if he got himself absolutely, magnificently drunk. And it would be a novel way to pass the time. But even in his maddeningly bored state he had no desire to have the massive headache that would entail while at the same time trying to recover from a head injury. Still, it was a tempting thought, and it was with great regret that he answered, "No, that will be all."

"Your Majesty." She bobbed another curtsy and exited, leaving Edmund alone with his dinner.

Sighing in resignation (sighing was becoming rather a habit of his, Edmund noted), he lifted the goblet and toasted the tapestry. He had not yet taken a sip when there was another knock on the door. Suspecting that Calaine had forgotten something he called, "Enter!" and went back to his meal.

The door opened, but there was no greeting. Frowning, he looked up from his study of the potatoes (there was sage and something else in there) only to see…

"You," he managed eloquently.

"Ah, yes." Peter shifted, setting a pair of satchels on the floor and looking rather sheepish. "Me."

Edmund glared at him, and was pleased to see that Peter actually took a half step back. Apparently practicing the look on Peter-Huntsman hadn't been wasted. Still trying to decide if he were angry with his brother, he went back to poking at his potatoes.

"Edmund? Look, I'm sorry, I know I promised I'd visit earlier but…well." Peter sighed, scuffing his booted foot over the intricate rug. "Ed? Say something, please."

Sage and thyme, Edmund realized. It was a new combination; he would have to send his congratulations to the kitchens. With the mystery of the potatoes solved, he turned his attention to the anger that was still vying with anticipation at the thought of conversation with someone who _wasn't _trying to shove medicines down his throat. Suddenly coming to a decision, he asked pleasantly, "So I suppose you ran out of diplomats to talk to?

"Come now, that's not fair! You know I would have stayed with you all day if I could." Edmund said nothing but only stared at his brother. Peter sighed again, angrily this time. "Fine. I'm too tired to deal with this right now. I'll just go."

Peter turned to do just that and Edmund realized, with a little twinge of regret, that all his anger at Peter had dissipated, along with his desire to thrust his frustration off onto someone else. "Peter," he said hesitantly. The retreating figure froze. "I'm sorry- that was uncalled for."

"I'll say," Peter muttered, but there was no malice in the words.

"It's just- I feel useless, and such an idiot. And then there's the likelihood that I'll go mad if I'm forced to stay in this room one moment longer."

"Nonsense," Peter snorted, a smile breaking over his tired face. "You're already as mad as you could possibly get."

"Oh, Peter, you wound me, really, you do." Back onto comfortable ground now, he took a drink of his wine, frowning in distress upon realizing that it had been generously watered. It wasn't enough for them to lock him in this room, now they were watering his wine as well. Looking hopefully up at his still-smiling brother, he asked, "I don't suppose I could convince you to break me out of here?"

"Much as I love you, I'm absolutely terrified of Lune's physician. You should have seen the look he gave me when I came in here. Enough to melt steel, that glare. Here," he added, watching in slight amusement as Edmund tried to set his dinner aside, "let me take that."

"No," Peter said again, once the tray was safely out of harm's way, "I can't break you out, but I did come bearing gifts."

"Really?" Edmund asked with poorly veiled interest. It was just so boring, convalescing. And the chance to see Peter had come only too rarely these past few days. "What?"

"First of all, I have something to ease your boredom, so maybe you won't snap next time." With that, Peter dropped a heavy leather satchel into Edmund's lap. "All the reports from the Western border, missives from the navy outposts, and something long and terrifyingly detailed from Susan. I don't even think I want to know what _that's_ about There are a couple of trade agreements I'd like you to look over, if you can stomach them, and we'll need to talk about the contract with the Mt. Calarmot Eerie. But that can wait till we're back at the Cair."

Smiling gleefully, Edmund flipped through a sheaf of heavy parchment, running his eyes over a few of the trade stipulations. Already there were a few things he thought he might need to look over. Though he had never in his life ever expected to say this- praise Aslan for paperwork. And Peter.

"Peter," he said, putting as much sincerity as he could into his voice, "you are an absolute saint. I'd give you half my kingdom for this, but seeing as you're already the High King…"

"I just wish I could have gotten it to you sooner. I know how bored you've been in here and besides that, I _need_ you." Sinking down on the bed, Peter stuck his elbows on his knees and sighed. "I swear, if I have to put up with one more day of listening to conceited diplomats talk to hear their own voices, I'm going to drag the entire council session into this room and let you deal with them. But enough about business," he said suddenly, smiling. Turning to face Edmund he said, "My second gift is for the both of us, and if you tell anyone I've brought it I'll kill you myself."

"Such brotherly love," Edmund murmured, shoving the papers back into the satchel and setting it aside. The work could wait until Peter was gone. "If it's wolf pup or anything of that nature, I'll have to ask you to wait. I can't really chase small animals around at the moment…"

"Ha! So you admit that you aren't fully healthy? And what was that rant yesterday about being ready to get back to your duties?"

"Shut up, Peter," Edmund tossed back, amiably nudging his brother's ribs to reinforce his point. "What's the second gift?"

Peter threw in one more triumphant smirk before retrieving the second satchel, forgotten until now, and revealing a goodly sized jug and a pair of goblets. "There's a cook in the kitchens," he explained as he struggled to remove the cork, "who felt quite sorry for me. Apparently I looked rather pitiful after today's negotiations."

"So she gave you wine?" Edmund asked, half in exasperation, half in admiration. "One has to wonder what kind of a reputation we've built for ourselves in Archenland."

Peter loosed a small, rather wolfish, smile. "One has to wonder, indeed. Particularly since your... fall from grace."

There was a brief silence during which Edmund glared, Peter sipped his wine innocently and the blond huntsman smiled beatifically from the tapestry. And then Peter, recently crowned High King of Narnia, gave a cry of alarm and a rather loud thump as he hit the floor. The goblet skittered across the floor with, to Edmund's ears, a gratifying clamor.

"What- I-," Peter sputtered. "Edmun-"

"Don't," he said pleasantly, pointing at Peter, "try to get up. "You deserve that floor, brother, and you'll stay there until I say otherwise."

"Or?"

Edmund grinned a grin that never failed to set Susan's teeth on edge and would, in the years to come, send enemies fleeing through doors, windows and other conveniently placed small openings. Thinking of their recent ride with Lune, and Peter's ecstatic comments about the particular beauty of a certain ledge near a waterfall and the desirability of attaining that ledge, and all the events that followed, he simply raised his goblet and his brow. "My physician would love to see me drinking, don't you think?"

Peter paled and sniffed. "Fine. But- and mark me on this- this is the last time I'll be saving you."

"Of course."

Moments of contented silence followed, eventually broken by Peter, still seated on the floor, and his quiet question. "Do you think that fox on the left looks familiar?"

* * *

This very odd, pointless and rather rambling bit is my response to Lara86's (the 200th reviewer) innocent innocent request for "something happy." I do apologize to her, and can only say that I've never been very good at following simple directions.


	21. Perish Twice

When she is a child, she dreams of war, and the end of… the end of. There's night and snow and distant howls and cold, always cold, lacing her sleep with ice and working its way deep, deep into her bones. And when she wakes up, the night and the snow and the howls are gone, but the cold is there, bone-deep and dormant.

She can feel it there, waiting beneath her skin, but even as a child she knows better than to tempt fate and pull the cold out with words. The cold teaches her patience, teaches her solitude, and even as it freezes her it fills her with fire, because everyone knows that fire's the only way to stop ice.

The dreams don't stop, even as she grows older, and the ice settles deeper, and the fires blaze stronger, and she knows that all these things can't be for nothing.

And she waits.

* * *

Her coronation is held on a bright, gentle spring day. People say there's never been a more beautiful day, but of course that's only fitting for such a beautiful queen, isn't it? And of course the new queen's reign will be all peace and softness, because what else could it be with her such a sweet young thing?

But she knows- _knows_, like she knows the dreams that never stopped and the ice that's getting stronger and the fire that burns within her- that the beauty and the peace and the softness are just a front, because whatever power is in this world has not made her for such things.

She's a creature of ice and fire, of patience and stillness and solitude and strength. She has to be for something.

And she waits.

* * *

One night the dream changes. The night is still full of snow and wolves and howls, and the cold. The cold is stronger now, and it names itself. It is the dead silence on pitch-black nights and the unbidden flinch at the touch of an icy finger and the darkness behind the stars.

And there is also the voice, so full of sadness and eternity. _It is coming_, it says. _I am sorry, my child._

And for the first time, she gives voice in her dream. _For what else was I born?_

At the sound of her voice the dream shatters and she wakes. The only thing she knows, in the single moment in which she hangs between this world and the dreaming, is that she is burning, burning deep in her bones and in her mind and in the very heart of her.

She doesn't know if she burns because of the fire, or the ice.

And her waiting is over.

* * *

News comes that day- the Tree is dead, blasted beyond recovery, and the Winter is coming, descending from the north with a vanguard of wolves. Her people are in disarray, her army uncertain.

But she rises, calm and in full possession of herself, for the wolves have howled in her dreams since her childhood and she _knows _what this Winter is. It is the silence, the flinch, the darkness.

But she is Swanwhite; she is the shout, the stillness, the flame.

And if she is to be consumed by this icy Winter and by a fire of her own making, well, for what else was she born?


	22. fait accompli

He's the first to worry when they don't return as planned and the last to admit that maybe they're not coming back. He haunts the halls of Cair Paravel for days before racing to the west, cursing his stupidity- _she found me in Lantern Waste, when she comes back, that's where I'll find her_- and ignoring the gentle pleas of the other abandoned ones to stay in the east, to wait, to accept.

She found him the in the west, in the snow and the woods. Surely he can find her.

* * *

Summer in the west is gentle this year; he sits by the entrance of his old home, the door flung wide to rid the interior of its years-thick coat of dust, or waits near the lamppost. Always he carries his pipes, plays them for hours on end, haunting lullabies and madcap jigs, plays till his lips crack and his fingers bleed.

His songs lured her into Narnia, and she loved them ever after.

* * *

Time passes, and his songs fail to snare her again. He puts the pipes on a high shelf, where they remain until his death.

* * *

The old guard begins to die and memory of the old days, the Golden Age, begins to fade. He remains, alone and forgotten, withering beneath the boughs of ancient trees. No one comes to Lantern Waste, these days.

Ivy begins to cover the lamppost and he, too old now and too tired to tear it down, wonders what she will do when she returns, with no landmark to show her the way.

* * *

Winter whispers into the west, its snow and ice and watery, inconstant sunlight dredging up memories that he can scare distinguish from reality. Some days he mourns, others he sits by his window, eagerly watching the snow, waiting for her to come to his door all young and bright and carefree.

On these days, he tells himself that the Witch does not own him, that he will not betray this bright young child, that he will protect her. He will give her tea and play her lullabies and tell her tales of wild dances held under the summer stars, and she will learn to love his land as he has loved it.

* * *

The winter deepens and each day he waits, knowing she will return, because he'd seen it in her eyes as he'd walked her through the snow, seen the way her young face had flared with wonder at his talk of centaurs and fauns and animals that spoke as she did.

He knows she'll return to free the land of winter. And he waits.


	23. rilke's elegies

_i_. She never drinks tea if she can help it; she drinks coffee instead. There are not a few of her friends and acquaintances that frown on this; they think it's _affected_ and _American_. Susan thinks the bitter taste of black coffee reminds her of someplace far away that she has never been, and she finds that comforting.

* * *

_ii._ All of _who_ Susan is (daughter, sister, lover, soldier, philosopher, queen) is at times impossible to fit into _what _she is (a young Englishwoman, alone).

* * *

_iii._ Some nights, Susan dreams of angels. Not the gentle angels in robes of white with wings soft as down and harps of purest gold, no; Susan dreams of angels vast and glorious and terrifying, and she sometimes wakes with a cry, near blinded in her sleep, tears waiting behind half-lidded eyes. She never lets them fall, though, and when she is one day asked if she believes in angels she answers with a flat look and a line of Rilke.

Really, though, she prefers not to think of such things. She left all her soft pretensions of gods and angels in another world and the veil for her here is thin enough already.

* * *

_iv._ When she is a little girl, lions terrify her. (Which makes it slightly startling that this is the anthropomorphized form that Narnia's deity most commonly takes. When she, older and not a little intoxicated, shares this observation with Peter he replies with a steady gaze and a light "Susan, you think _too much_.")

* * *

_v._ Someday, she will travel in the desert and she will drink from the small flask that she stole from Peter when they lived under the same roof and she will be utterly alone in an utterly alien world and for the first time in years her head will finally be_ quiet_.


	24. tell our story in shards and fragments

**tell our story in shards and fragments**

She's always had a predilection for picking up names- nicknames and pet names and titles and labels and curses; she has them all. She has a real name, too, wrapped around her at birth in hopes that it would take, in hopes that it would shape and guide and lead her on to happiness and love and peace.

It didn't, of course, but that's hardly the name's fault. She's always been stubborn.

* * *

People call her by her titles or her most (in)famous nickname- _Swanwhite, cold as the Winter, the better to fight the Witch_- and she uses it, too, reveling in how it's never fit her, never will. It's a joke, in her laughing eyes (and you wouldn't think that flint could laugh but, oh, it can, and never more so than in her gaze), and she loves to turn it on others, turn it on herself.

For a name of so little substance, it's surprisingly weighty (she's always known that building her own mythos would be difficult, she just never expected it to hurt so much). Some mornings she can barely lift it

* * *

Hardly anyone calls her by her given name anymore, and if they do, she doesn't answer (she shed that name years ago, buried it along with her parents one warm spring evening and left it to rot). Those syllables are painful, too wrapped up in golden summer light and smiling eyes and _could-have-been_s to use. She can't laugh down suitors or battle off witches with her dead parents sitting on her shoulders.

(They wouldn't recognize her, in any case. Maybe that's what she fears more than anything else.)

* * *

She hopes history remembers her kindly (and, as the nights lengthen unceasingly, she half hopes they open that grave, exhume that name. The shadowy queen of antiquity might wear it better).

* * *

Narnia loses many things in its hundred years of sleep, and she is one of them. In her place is Swanwhite the Beautiful, gentle and kind (no one, surprisingly, ever questions how the insipid Swanwhite of history books could have ever held against Jadis for all those years. This new Swanwhite goes down easier, and maybe that's enough for the new, golden Narnia), the queen of a happy court, cut down too soon by the Winter.

Were she alive to see it, she might laugh (she's always liked a good joke).

* * *

(Narnia's darker secrets were never meant to be told. That much has always been true. The only difference is, now, she's one of them.)


End file.
